Scoundrel
by Schribbler
Summary: Short stories about Jack Sparrow when he was a boy. Action, adventure and much mischief.


His feet half buried in the fine white sand, the boy wiggled his toes in a wave, enjoying the feeling of the hot sun scorched sand running to mingle with the cooler grains from the patchy shadows of the overhanging palm leaves. He wore only a patched and faded pair of dungarees, the straps rubbing on his sunburnt and peeling shoulders, and strands of frayed fabric dangling down over his ankles. A short stretch of rope was knotted around his waist and a waterlogged and rusty pistol – his most prized possession – had been dug through the makeshift belt. A battered and much too large tricorn hat hung over his eyes, shading his face from the scorch of the sun. Beneath the shadow of this trophy, little was visible apart from a wide grin of wicked intent.  
  
Bright eyes watched the surrounding scene intently, following a great ship as it made its way across the cerulean water of the bay toward the harbour. It was heavily laden, judging by its position in the water, and they would surely need assistance in unloading its burden. The boy sprang to his feet, adjusted his hat to a jaunty angle and sauntered up the beach to the quayside, his pockets clinking with seashells and thumbtacks and whatever coins his small fingers could scavenge from between the cobbles of the street.  
  
~*~  
  
None knew quite where the boy had come from. Some said that he had been abandoned by merchant sailors; others thought that he had been washed up on the shore. Uncertain though the boy's origins were, one thing remained unanimous. All had sympathy for those that had had the notion to cast him overboard or leave him on a strange dock in the first place.  
  
He had been on the island for many years now – few knew how many exactly. Sometimes he would disappear, a stowaway on a ship to some strange harbour, but to everyone's dismay within a week or two he would be back... perhaps a little taller, a little scruffier, a little more tanned – but still the same mischievous child. Tired of shouting at a boy without a name, the sailors had dubbed him Jack, and while this had little effect on the child's remorse at his wrong doings, the name had stuck.  
  
~*~  
  
The docks were swarming with sailors and deckhands unloading barrels and boxes, uniformed members of the navy swaggering self-importantly, and families greeting long lost relations. One of the boxes had split open, revealing row upon row of neatly packed silver teaspoons of the perfect size to fit into a baggy pocket.  
  
More heavily laden now and clinking rather more musically, Jack strolled casually back along the docks, munching at an apple – also pilfered from the crates – and whistled a sea shanty that he had heard a sailor whistling once upon a time. There would be rich pickings from the newcomers no doubt, but whilst they were surrounded by sailors and their hosts he had little chance of coming close enough to relieve them of their burdens. Unless. . .  
  
A small splash and a few minutes later the newest boot boy was scurrying eagerly across the smooth wood of the jetty, blue and white scarf tied neatly about his neck and straw boater drawn down firmly over his face. He skipped neatly over the larger cases and trunks that would make a quick getaway rather difficult, making for a bundle of small packages that could easily be hidden and collected later.  
  
"Good boy." A large hand clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder, and Jack spun round to look at his assailant, quickly adopting his most painfully innocent look. Behind him was a plump man, flushed from the heat of the day. Trickles of sweat ran down his forehead from underneath the curls of his wig. "Excellent service. Excellent."  
  
Cocking his head to one side and giving the man his widest and most toothy smile, Jack nodded his head seriously and gathered up an armful of small parcels and began slowly backing away.  
  
"Here." The man fumbled inside his pocket for a heavily laden pouch from which he drew a couple of silver coins. "Excellent. Excellent."  
  
"Sir. Thank you, Sir." Jack turned and walked sedately down the jetty until he was sure that he was out of sight, then took to his heels and ran, the dangling strings of the parcels flying out behind him. 


End file.
